


All These Ghosts

by uwhatson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-30
Updated: 2010-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwhatson/pseuds/uwhatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles for s.1 through s.3 - just moments from Sam and Dean's lives with no overarching plot (so don't look for one).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All These Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> For Andrea.
> 
> This story is paired with a fanmix which can be downloaded [here](https://mega.co.nz/#!FlsizQCD!PV2cRjBptNWvM_ga96UTikDPa6YZX__ggzm-bJXvwP4).

**01\. Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked – Cage The Elephant**

_I know I can't slow down_  
 _I can't hold back_  
 _Though you know, I wish I could_  
 _No there ain't no rest for the wicked_  
 _Until we close our eyes for good_

By day, graveyards were friendly places, with shrubs and trees and even birds off singing in the bushes. The rows of gravestones were not forbidding shadows but the last reminders of men and women who had lived and died, gone through life and all its small evils one day at a time.

Sam leaned against a worn marble headstone and let himself take a minute to appreciate the early morning sunlight shining through the trees at the cemetery’s eastern border. The night had been a long one, just like every other night spent destroying what Dean liked to refer to as ‘monsters.’ Of course, Sam had to admit, that was what they were now, so he couldn’t really object.

Still, it seemed unfair, when there were plenty of other monsters in every day life. This graveyard probably had its own share of murderers, cheats and liars: souls filled with guilt and regret, buried six feet under and left to rot for eternity.

The horn of the Impala cut through the cold morning air, like the sudden chorus of angels heralding the Judgment Day, here at last on Earth.

Sam sighed and stood. He shouldered his shovel and continued his stumbling walk down the hill, ready to collapse into the passenger seat and leave this town behind.

**02\. Consoler Of The Lonely – The Raconteurs**

_I'm told it's everything a man could want_  
 _And I shouldn't complain_

Dean knew he and his brother had a life most people probably longed for, hungered after, maybe even dreamed of, tucked up in their cozy beds at night.

No taxes, no boring office jobs, no rules or limits. Just miles and miles of empty roads and freedom, adventure and excitement at every turn.

As Sam sewed up the ragged gash across his shoulder, Dean dug his fingers into his leg and gritted his teeth, without even alcohol to take the edge off the pain.

Most people, Dean decided, could go fuck themselves.

**03\. Soul Of A Man – Beck**

_Call a doctor, call a ghost_  
 _Put a fire into your bones_  
 _Sic a dog on all you know_  
 _Cut it loose before you go_

It was always a joke that Dean was the one who liked burning things, liked seeing things go up in smoke and crumble to ash, with nothing left behind.

But that didn’t mean Sam didn’t like it too, the thick scent of gasoline in the air and one match all it took to send flames shooting upwards, releasing sparks with violent cracks into the cold night air.

He just didn’t shout about it like Dean did.

**04\. Guilt By Association – Louis XIV**

_It’s never ever coming true_  
 _There’s nothing you can do to change it_  
 _You don’t have to do the crime to do the time_  
 _It’s just guilt by association_

When Dean was in the second grade, his teacher told them to draw a picture of what they wanted to be when they grew up and bring it back to school the next day.

That night, Dean scribbled away with all the crayons they had on a piece of paper he’d taken from the school library. He needed a red crayon, but they didn’t have one, so he used the pink instead and hoped it would be okay. Occasionally he’d leave the drawing on the table and go check the boiling pasta on the stove, standing on a stack of books to be able to stir it. Sam sat on the floor, flipping through the pages of _Corduroy_ and clinging to his stuffed bear tightly, one ear torn off and the plush fabric matted and threadbare.

Dean spilled some of the pasta while pouring out all the extra water into the sink, but picked out each slippery piece, rinsed it off and threw it back in the pot.

“Dinner, Sammy.”

Dean plunked the bowls on the table and pulled Sam up off the floor, away from _Corduroy_ and its pictures that filled every page with colors.

Sam ate slowly, still clutching his bear, perched on top of the same stack of books that Dean had used while making dinner. Dean waited for him to finish, his bowl already emptied of overcooked pasta without any tomato sauce or cheese to make it taste better.

“Hey look, Sammy,” Dean said, and held up his drawing. “What d’you think this is?”

Sam didn’t say anything, just blinked at him owlishly, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.

“It’s a fireman,” Dean said, and grinned. “’S what I’m gonna be when I grow up.”

Sam stared at Dean for a few moments longer, and then dropped his gaze to the table once more. What happened next could have been just an accident, or maybe it was on purpose, Dean would never know. But he watched as Sam’s elbow somehow slipped, knocking his bowl off the edge of the table and sending soggy pasta flying across the dirty motel carpet.

Dean did not start to cry.

**05\. Saturday Night – Kaiser Chiefs**

_Come to the city on a Saturday night_  
 _Watching the boys on their motorbikes_  
 _I wanna be like those guys_  
 _I wanna wear my clothes tight_

The keys jingled in Dean’s hand as he led the way to the car. Sam followed in his wake, wondering, not for the first time, what the other keys were for.

No house, no job: just a car. So what the hell did Dean have five other keys for?

Sam wondered if maybe his brother collected them, found them in gutters or on barroom floors and saved them, because keys meant having something, having somewhere that you could call your own, that no one else should be able to take away from you.

Or maybe Dean just liked the sound. It was the sound of going somewhere, doing something, being someone.

Sam had seen his brother pretend to be hundreds of different people by now, from newspaper reporters to FBI agents, and he knew Dean understood that people hardly ever looked past appearances. Just get the look right, the sound right, and you could become anybody.

A man on his way to something incredible.

A man going back to something he could call his own.

**06\. Mexican Circus – Volcanoless In Canada**

_Better make sure when you take advantage_  
 _You can manage yourself_

“How the fuck d’you think I felt? Me, Sammy. The guy who taught you multiplication tables and took you to the dentist twice a year and made sure you always had three damn meals a day, because Dad didn’t give a shit and wasn’t ever there, so I spent my entire fucking childhood making sure you had one, all so that you could ditch me the second you got the chance!”

“Alright, Dean, I got it!”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, Dad fucked up, okay?! He screwed you over from the time you were four, and I’m sorry for that, I really am, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend the rest of my life letting you tell me what to—”

“That’s—”

“No, you fucking—just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean you get to run my life, and it doesn’t mean you know everything. In fact, I’m pretty sure most people would say the opposite—”

“What, because you went to college and I didn’t? Because you thought you could run away from your own family? Because apparently, even though I fucking _raised_ you, you didn’t give a damn if you ever saw me again?”

“Dean, I am not going to spend my entire goddamn life only doing what you want me to! I know Dad was able to make you into his mindless follower, but you’re not gonna be able to do the same with me. So, guess what, Daddy’s little soldier, you can go straight to—”

Sam was silenced by the impact of Dean’s fist into his jaw, spinning him to the right and slamming him against the Impala.

He slid down the side of the car and collapsed onto the blacktop, the age-worn surface still warm from the heat of the day. The desert stretched out in all directions, vast and empty in the orange glow of the sunset.

Sam opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out except blood and spit, dripping onto the cracked pavement.

He knew Dean was watching him, waiting for him to look up.

Sam stared down at his blood on the ground and swallowed, the taste of iron on his tongue.

**07\. Kill Monsters In The Rain – Steel Train**

_Together we can, together we'll_  
 _Kill monsters in the rain_  
 _We are the same, what a mess you made_  
 _Oh we are the same, what a mess we'll make_

It was dark inside the tiny cupboard under the kitchenette sink, all except for the thin chink where the doors didn’t quite come together, letting in a glimmer of light that cut through the darkness, cleft it in two.

“Shh, Sammy,” Dean said, and felt Sam bury his face in his shoulder.

Dean could hear the pounding down of the rain outside, so hard it sounded like the world was ending, all of them to be washed away before morning came. He listened for that constant drumming, underneath the yelling of his father beyond the cupboard door, out in the well-lit room with empty beer cans and glass bottles on every flat surface.

“It’ll be okay, Sammy,” Dean whispered, and prayed that his brother wouldn’t start to cry, waiting for the glimmer of light to go out. “Don’t be afraid of the dark.”

**08\. Sam’s Town – The Killers**

_I've got this energy beneath my feet_  
 _Like something underground's gonna come up and carry me_  
 _I've got this sentimental heart that beats_  
 _But I don't really mind that it's starting to get to me now_

The glass shattered as it hit the wire fence, splintering in glittering shards across the asphalt, caught in the fluorescent lights of the parking lot.

Sam tried to take a deep breath, but it wasn’t enough, never enough, and he was gasping, trying to fill his lungs with enough oxygen as he stood in the white light and tried to breathe.

“Y’know, you should try punching someone instead. It’s a hell of a lot more satisfying.”

Dean sounded drunk, and Sam knew that he probably was, that both of them were. That was why it would be stupid to yell at Dean, right here and right now. None of this was his fault and it wouldn’t be fair. Sam didn’t turn around, just stood staring straight ahead, fighting down this swirling anger that came from nowhere and never really seemed to leave.

“Come on, Sammy, take your best shot. I dare you.”

Sam swallowed and took a ragged breath.

“You dare me, Dean? How old are you?”

“Old enough to still kick your ass after five beers. Come on, put ‘em up, tiger.”

Sam finally turned. Dean was standing in the middle of the parking lot, waiting, his arms up like a boxer and only swaying a little, so slight you could hardly tell. There was silence for a few seconds as they stared at each other, and then—

“Dean, don’t— I’m fine. Really.” Sam shrugged and tried to grin.

After a moment, Dean shook his head and dropped his arms to his sides.

“Whatever, Sam. Just don’t come crying to me when all that suppressed rage catches up with you and you start shooting puppies or some shit.”

“Fine,” Sam said, and only hesitated a moment before adding, “jerk.”

Dean grinned, but Sam couldn’t tell if the expression was real or just as fake as his own.

“Bitch.”

**09\. The Wanderer – Dion & The Belmonts**

_Oh well, I'm the type of guy who will never settle down_  
 _Where pretty girls are, well you know that I'm around_  
 _I kiss 'em and I love 'em 'cause to me they're all the same_  
 _I hug 'em and I squeeze 'em, they don't even know my name_

It was a great bar, the kind with wooden counters with years of graffiti carved into them and creaking floors littered with peanut shells. There was even a jukebox in the corner that didn’t have anything on it from after the 70s had come and gone.

And there were girls, which only the best bars had in such abundant and good-looking quantities.

Dean took another swallow of beer and tried to decide if the cut he’d got across his face two days before made him look manly and badass, or just like any other fuck-up who couldn’t handle himself in a bar fight and wouldn’t be worth a girl’s time.

Of course, there was only one way to find out.

**10\. Happiness Is A Warm Gun – The Beatles**

_When I hold you in my arms_  
 _When I feel my finger on your trigger_  
 _Don't you know nobody can do me no harm_

“See, people don’t realize this shit, you know, man? Like, all this crap about ‘guns don’t kill people, people do?’ I mean, _bullshit_. Like, what good’s a gun ever done anybody? All they do is kill people, right? Nothing else. I mean, who needs a gun? Just people looking for a fucking excuse to use it. Fucking crazies, you know? People who think the only way to live is to kill shit. Like it’s something to _proud_ of, I mean, _goddamn_.”

Sam nodded and listened and said nothing, because he and his roommate were getting on really well so far and Sam would like to keep it that way. After all, he figured he probably could, so long as Anthony never looked in his middle desk drawer or on the top shelf of the closet.

“Fucking crazies.”

**11\. Everything Will Be Alright – The Killers**

_And I won't forget you_  
 _At least I'll try_  
 _And run, and run tonight_

Dean collapsed onto the motel mattress, wincing at the loud creak as it took his weight. He knew he should call Sam, ask how he was doing. Ask if college was everything he’d wanted it to be and everything hunting wasn’t.

But he was so damn tired. He’d call in the morning, after grabbing watery coffee from the gas station down the road and chewing his way through an energy bar from the glove compartment.

But in the morning he remembered that Sam would probably have classes this time of day, and besides, Dad had just called with a job two states over, so Dean should probably hit the road and burn up as many miles as possible before the sky went dark again. He’d call Sammy that night, when he arrived at the next shitty motel with stains on the carpet and noises in the ceiling.

When he got there, though, the pay phone was out of service, and his cell, that piece of shit, didn’t get reception in this backwater town. So Dean cursed, more out of habit than anything else, and went to bed, swearing that tomorrow he’d call, just as soon as he could.

**12\. Kids With Guns – Gorillaz**

_And they're turning us into monsters_  
 _Turning us into fire_  
 _Turning us into monsters_  
 _It's all desire_

Sam sometimes wondered what it would be like to have never fired a gun—to never have held that power in your hands, able to blow away anything in your path with just one moment full of fire and metal.

How different a man would he have become, really?

**13\. Creeper – Islands**

_Right from the start I was stabbed in the heart_  
 _Didn't know I wasn't breathing_  
 _Didn't know I had been bleeding_  
 _Open my door_  
 _Thought I was alone but_  
 _Someone was hiding_  
 _In the dark room in my home_

There was a shape in the darkness, silhouetted against the shaded windows that still let in the glow from the streetlights outside.

Sam had been hoping it was just one of those harmless night noises, the kind that woke him once a week at least, of the pipes creaking or the refrigerator humming or just the house shifting around him and Jess in the dark. When he’d heard the thump of the window, he’d thought that maybe they just hadn’t closed it all the way, that it had slipped of its own accord. It wasn’t until he saw it himself that he realized the sound had been from the window jamming open, not slamming shut.

He could feel his heartbeat start to pick up, the blood pumping in his ears, his hands already curling into fists as he tried to remember where he had the .45 tucked away and what knives were on display by the kitchen sink.

Sam remembered the first time he’d shot up a ghost with rock salt. His finger had been shaking on the trigger, and he’d been filled with fear and anticipation, every sense stretched so taut that everything had seemed so much more vibrant, so much more exciting, just— _more_.

He tried not to think about how he hadn’t felt this alive since he left Dad and Dean in that falling apart house in the middle of nowhere, full of defiance and freedom as he ran down the middle of the moonlit highway, on towards better things.

He tried not to think that maybe he felt more at home hunting monsters in the dark than living the life he’d chosen for himself, four whole years ago.

**14\. Bullets – Tunng**

_We’re catching bullets with our_  
 _Heads and hearts and all the darkest parts of us_  
 _It's strange to find such light_  
 _In such endless night_

“Hold on, man, come on, just a little farther—”

Dean’s arm hurt like a bitch. That and the sound of Sammy’s voice were about the only two things he was aware of for the moment, the rest of the world a place of blurs and shadows, completely insubstantial past the pain and Sammy’s panic.

“Dean, come on, I can’t carry you, you’ve got to keep walking, Dean—”

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean tried to say, but it was hard to get his mouth around the words. Still, Sam seemed to have heard him anyway, saying, “I’m fine, Dean, why are you even—”

“Good,” Dean sighed and tried to feel his feet under him, stumbling on as Sam pulled him forward through the shadows.

**15\. They Are Night Zombies! – Sufjan Stevens**

_I know, I know my time has passed_  
 _I'm not so young, I'm not so fast_  
 _I tremble with the nervous thought_  
 _Of having been, at last, forgot_

They both knew what ghosts wanted— revenge, retribution. Demons were easy— death and destruction, nothing more. Vampires wanted blood, werewolves wanted human hearts. Then there were shapeshifters, rugarus, wendigos, strigas and more, pages and pages of monsters filling the pages of their dad’s journal, all wanting something, needing something, filled with desire.

“What d’you want, Dean?” Sam asked.

“Same as always,” Dean said. “Bacon cheeseburger, extra fries. You?”

“Dunno yet. Maybe a salad.”

**16\. Cemeteries Of London – Coldplay**

_God is in the houses and God is in my head_  
 _And all the cemeteries in London_  
 _I see God come in my garden_  
 _But I don’t know what he said_  
 _For my heart, it wasn’t open_  
 _Not open_

There had been a graveyard just a few blocks from their house in Lawrence, and Mom had taken Dean there on weekends for a picnic lunch, saying it was special time, just for them—‘no daddies allowed.’ Dean would run along the gravel paths and trace the shapes of carved letters with his fingers, while Mom laughed and told him to slow down or he would trip and didn’t he want his PB&J?

Mom had told him there were people underground, people who’d been alive hundreds of years ago, and Dean had asked if it was boring, being down there all day. She’d laughed, but hadn’t answered, distracted by something, maybe a bird’s flight or making sure Dean didn’t get peanut butter all over his face, or maybe just nothing at all.

Dean never asked her again, the question quickly forgotten. But sometimes when he ran his slightly sticky fingers over the shapes cut into the stones before him during those sunny afternoons, he would close his eyes and listen, trying to hear them moving around down there and wondering why in the world they’d choose to spend all their time down in the darkness and the silence below.

**17\. My Boy Builds Coffins – Florence & The Machine**

_My boy builds coffins he makes them all day_  
 _But it's not just for work and it isn't for play_  
 _He's made one for himself_  
 _One for me too_  
 _One of these days he'll make one for you_

“How many times do you think we’ve almost died?”

Dean didn’t reply. Sam wondered if he’d fallen asleep, and glanced over to see his brother with his head against the window and dried blood on his forehead, eyes closed.

It wasn’t until three mile markers had flown by, briefly illuminated in the glare of the headlights, that Dean’s voice broke the silence.

“Too many times, Sammy. Too many times.”

**18\. String – Tunng**

_Ghosts drop hints_  
 _And whisper things_  
 _Just blood and bone_  
 _And bits of string_

Dean had sewn his own skin together more times than he could count. He had relocated his own bones, splinted his own broken fingers.

Every time, he had been able to piece himself back together, with only scars to show for it.

So far, there had been no holes that couldn’t be sewn shut.

**19\. Lighthouse – The Hush Sound**

_The city is burning_  
 _The ocean is turning_  
 _Our only chance is the lighthouse_

They were driving up the California coastline, almost to the Oregon border. Night had fallen long ago, but Dean had kept driving while off to the left the sun dropped down past the horizon, the sky darkened, and the white crests of the waves were swallowed up in blackness.

Sam was halfway to unconsciousness, staring out past Dean and the Impala’s windows and the road’s metal barrier, out towards the black water and black sky. Somehow there never seemed to be as many stars as when he’d been younger, that night when Dean had taught him the only three constellations either of them knew.

They rounded a sharp bend in the road and another light appeared, bright and insistent, pulsing in the distance.

Sam blinked, slowly, letting sleep start to pull him down, and thought about lights kept burning for no reason that their keepers will ever see.

**20\. Walking – The Dodos**

_Man's been wasting so much time_  
 _Sending the children out to fight_  
 _Don't you think maybe it's about time?_

“Rise n’ shine, Dean!”

Sammy’s voice was much too loud, and Dean woke with a start, blinking in the harsh sunlight streaming in through the blinds of the motel room.

“Nnrgh,” he groaned, but started to stretch anyway.

This was a mistake. Dean’s back suddenly screamed in protest and he collapsed, lying prone on the mattress, remembering that last night he had pulled a damn muscle during their routine grave digging, and that movement of any kind was going to be utter agony for the next couple of days.

“You okay, Dean?” he heard Sam ask as he shut his eyes against the sunlight and waited for the pain to pass.

“I’m getting to old for this shit,” Dean said eventually, and Sam laughed, yanking the blinds all the way open.

**21\. Ghosts Are Good Company – Bishop Allen**

_All these ghosts_  
 _They will not leave me_  
 _They're the best company_  
 _That I've ever had_

Graveyards, Sam rationalized, were no more than a collection box for humanity’s last traces, compost pits for flesh and bones, places of superstitious ritual and natural decomposition.

However, such logic did not seem to apply, or at least not this night, as Sam stood all alone next to the dug-up grave of a possibly quite vengeful spirit, just because Dean had forgotten to grab the gasoline, even though they’d done this whole song and dance more times than they can count and, really, shouldn’t they’ve been able to remember the damn gasoline by now?

Just seconds ago, Sam had heard an owl hoot. An honest-to-god owl that hooted in cemeteries in the dead of night.

The fuck.

Sam strained to hear any sound that would signify Dean’s approach through the darkness, anything that might stop the phobic terror slowly taking over his brain, rather than simply encourage it.

There was the crack of a twig, off to his right, and Sam spun around, only to see nothing there at all. Just darkness and more headstones, each with a skeleton lying six feet underneath it.

“Christ,” Sam hissed into the darkness and tightened his grip on the shovel, trying to take deep breaths.

He was no stranger to graveyards. He’d thought he was done being scared of shadows, ever since he’d learned that a surprising majority of the night’s horrors could be taken down via shotgun. But tonight was different somehow, and the shadows were different too, creeping under his skin and into his mind, summoning all those fears that were the stuff childhood was made of.

_Don’t be afraid of the dark._

But all Sam could do was stand here by this gaping hole of a grave, clutching his shovel and staring into the shadows, waiting for some sound, some movement, for just one sign, one tiny change that would tell him if he was safe or if—

“BOO!”

“FUCKING CHRIST!”

Sam clutched at his chest, trying to make sure he still had a working heart while the sound of Dean’s uncontrolled laughter began echoing out through the rows of tombstones.

“Fucking hell, Dean,” Sam gasped eventually, “what is _wrong_ with you?”

Dean didn’t reply, just laughed even louder, leaning against a square of granite for support.

“’Fraid of the dark, Sammy?” he asked as Sam finally pulled himself to his feet and grabbed the gasoline from Dean’s hand.

“Shut up,” Sam said, and reached for his lighter.


End file.
